Monday, November 12, 2007

Neverland

she lives in a house of eggshells.
sometimes they crack and fall into her hair,
or bed, or soup.
there should be reasons for such happenings,
but she bothers not to know.
she lives with a heart of fairy tales.
she was Rapunzel once,
but ever since she cut her hair,
the heart only whispers.
she plugs her ears when it whispers of the prince.
she plugs her ears and holds her breath
until the whisper changes to plea.
one time when she was younger,
she lived next door to neverland.
differently than anyone ever knew,
neverland was a traveling circus:
peter pan the lion tamer
and tinkerbell the acrobat
kept the lost boys behind the fun house mirrors.
she visited often to keep their tears at bay.
it was hard to sleep in her eggshell bed
while the boys wailed for her fairy tale heart
to lead them home.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Melt to Blue

the sun is strong
but melts to sea
she melts to blue
and me to you

to hop this fence
and slide the dunes
through the brush
and towards the moon

will lead me to the salty licks
of waves upon a beach
i wish to dive beneath and swim
--forever swim away.

i hurt to be here, stranded
murky, aching, cold
enduring tangled jeers
amidst a younger blood

if i leap to scale the deep
never tiring or turning my head
and if you mirror notions free
surrender to places unsaid

i will meet you past the stars
far from where we'd been
i will find you safe ashore
she'll rise and melt again.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Free Hugs

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Friday, October 5, 2007

Po-et-ry

"And what do you like to do, Lucy?"
"I like to write."
"Ah, what do you write?"
"Poetry."

Though not quite so bland and straightforward, this exchange, in some form, has worked its way into many recent conversations. After explaining to the asker (and, perhaps, to myself), "I write poetry because [fill-in-the-blank]," I found myself wondering if I do, in fact, write poetry. What is poetry? Do I give myself too much credit in labeling every stanzaed work a poem?

Who might know the answer to this question? Why, Mr. Webster, of course.

po-et-ry (n.): 1. a: Metrical writing. b: The productions of a poet. 2: Writing that formulates a concentrated, imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm. 3: Something likened to poetry especially in beauty of expression.

After discovering this, I can identify with the second choice. I write with language meant to convey an emotional response. On occasion, it is concentrated and imaginative... but does this alone constitute 'productions of a poet'? Pray tell, Mr. Webster.

po-et (n.): 1: One who writes poems; a maker of verses. 2: One (as a creative artist) of great imaginative and expressive capabilities and special sensitivity to the medium.

So far, so good. Dare I inquire further?

po-em (n.): 1: A composition in verse. 2: Something suggesting a poem (as in expressiveness, lyricism, or formal grace).

The term 'poetry' is rather subjective, as I should have known - Mr. Webster always has the hardest time with abstract nouns (he offers nine options for the word 'love', to little avail). I consider my musings poetry partly by default, but partly by personal opinion. Ultimately, the label stays.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Without

the throbs and fumbles
within this bright red throne
upon which sit love
and peace and human virtue

without which, connection
would collapse
smiles would fade
and glows would dim

beat on, we scream,
never stopping
bring us hands to hold
and souls to match

without fail or prompt
the throbbing continues
pumping adrenaline
and pulsing spirit

feeding love and peace
and smile and glow
and hands and souls
without consent.